and you thought i was joking
by jynxhasadragon
Summary: in which altaïr works at the morgue and comes in one day to see one of the corpses up and about and not quite right in the head. or, where evie is altaïr’s colleague and hasn’t seen her brother in four years. modern AU. [on hiatus, sorry]
1. clicking shoes and butterflies

"Another one today, Maria?"

Altaïr's assistant nodded as she wheeled a gurney into the room, her dark hair pulled back and braided neatly under her cap. She wore no makeup, as per usual, and honestly, he preferred her without. Makeup was impractical; it interfered with too much, in his opinion. The fact that she looked beautiful with or without did not change his opinion.

She smiled up at him sweetly, as if she understood the thoughts moving through his mind at near light speed. She seemed almost a psychic, at times. Or perhaps she simply knew him well. The latter was most likely—he wasn't one to jump to conclusions often, and he certainly was not a superstitious man.

Maria handed him a thin manila folder as he eyed the body bag that held the corpse. Biting his lip as he thumbed through the contents, his eyes skimmed over the reports. David Brewster, male, aged 38. Homicide? There had been quite a few of those, lately. He nodded as he concluded his quick scan, turning back to Maria as he took the gurney from her. She followed him in as he wheeled it to the back, her heels clicking against the tile floor. His shoes also clicked, for that matter, and the front right wheel on the gurney was not level with the other three. He had yet to find one that was, in all honesty. Level, at least.

He grabbed a toe tag and a pen from a stack on a small table, scribbling down the number listed on the papers along with his name, date of death and presumed cause of death. There was that familiar symbol drawn on the palm of Brewster's hand, of a rook mid-flight. Drawn with the ordinary Bic pen, most likely. This would be the third Starrick homicide this month, the sixth overall. He would need to point it out to Freddy, if he hasn't noticed yet. Maybe to Kenway as well. He highly doubted they had missed it.

"Haytham? I thought you two didn't get along," Maria asked, surprise painted on her pretty face.

He hadn't realized he had spoken aloud. He shot a glance at her, to which she simply shrugged in response. He sighed and wheeled the gurney into the refrigeration room, tugging a white coat on in the process to keep out the bite from the cold. Still chilly, but not as bad as without. Moving the body into a refrigeration unit, he pulled out a previous victim from the day before. He pushed the older corpse to another room, where several medical instruments were laid out on trays atop carts. He pulled on the pair of gloves and mask that Maria handed him as he entered. She did the same as he uncovered the body and took the scalpel from Maria.

Philip Twopenny, one of the aforementioned Starrick homicides, had been found dead in his office not two streets down from the mortuary. There was reason enough to assume all four murders were committed by the same person—the other two (or three now, including Brewster) being Rupert Ferris and James Brudenell—as three of the four had died from nearly identical knife wounds in the gut, and all had a rook drawn on the palm with any pen left lying around the scene. Twopenny had been found with bullet in his upper right thigh in addition to the knife, and Ferris a bullet in the back of the head. How many more would die by the hands of...of whoever the killer was? He wasn't gonna lie, no love was lost for the Starrick crew. But that did not mean he enjoyed the murders. Absolutely not. Even if they paid the bills.

"Miss Frye knows, yes?" Maria asked him after a moment.

He grunted in response, nodding to his hands as he cut away the flesh immediately around the wound on the corpse's leg. Maria handed him a pair of tweezers—no need to be mindful of pain, the man was already dead—and repeated her question as he placed the scalpel on the tray. He nodded slowly in confirmation, as he carefully extracted the bullet. Evie Frye had been the one who connected the dots the previous day—she knew something else, but she wouldn't say. It worried him.

He dropped the bullet, coated in the thick blood of a dead man, into a small plastic baggie that Maria held open. That would go to the forensics department—they were still on the case, tracking down the murderer. Maria set the baggie down on another tray, pulling out a permanent marker as she labeled it quickly. She was accustomed to this line of work. Sometimes Altaïr wished she wasn't.

His attention was drawn to the doors as someone entered. He eyed Maria wryly as Evie stepped into the room, clad in her normal scrub suit and lab coat, which was impeccable as always. Her hair was in a ponytail today, however, rather than her usual braided bun that Maria had adopted. She seemed to be more (he searched for the right word) somber of late. More serious, but she kept her wits about her.

Evie nodded professionally towards Altaïr as their eye met, cool blue clashing with deep brown. She offered a warm smile to Maria as well, which his wife returned easily.

"Your shift ended ten minutes ago, Altaïr," Evie stated boldly. Everything she said was bold, whether she wanted it to or not. She was an intimidating woman when she chose to be. She was intimidating when she wasn't trying, too.

He grunted in response, turning to pick up the needle Maria had threaded and bending back over Twopenny's dead body.

"And?" he challenged, as he started stitching up the open wound.

Maria sighed at his display of stubbornness as Evie rolled her eyes and took a spot beside Maria. "And I'm taking over now. It's my shift anyways."

He arched an eyebrow at her as he tied off the stitch, just to spite her. She frowned.

"Maria, could you...?" Evie said, trailing off for a moment as she turned to Altaïr's wife.

He suppressed a sigh as she turned and gave him The Look. "You really should listen to her, Altaïr. Weren't you saying this morning how you wished that–"

"Yeah, we can leave now," he said quickly, cutting her off mid-sentence. Evie didn't need to know about that.

Both women cracked a smile at his reaction, and the sigh he had suppressed earlier found its way out of his mouth. He finished stitching in silence, but judging from the way Maria was smiling, Evie was probably mocking him again.

Tying off and trimming the stitch, he handed the needle to Maria before tugging his coat straight and bending over to cover Twopenny's body again. Evie caught his wrist before he finished, though.

"I'll finish up with him. You go home, you look tired."

He nodded hesitantly after a moment, before following his wife out towards the door. Evie followed them out, and he couldn't help but notice the _click_ _click click_ of their shoes against the tile floor.

"Any word from Jacob?" he asked. The question had become habit, now, something he did before he left and when he came in each morning. Her steps changed as she—stumbled? he wasn't sure—the _click_ of her shoes missing a beat before coming back to its original tempo. That either meant _yes, I got word from my brother_ or _yes, I have gotten word from my brother but I don't want to talk about it._

Either way, he was going to talk about it.

"Yes," she said after a moment. Altaïr nodded as he peeled his coat off, placing it on the back of the chair in front of his desk as he did every night. Maria watched her quietly, her surprise hidden behind a mask of calm. He knew she was surprised, probably in the same way she knew what he was thinking earlier. Maybe this almost-telepathy came from marriage. Who knew?

"He called last night," Evie continued.

His mind snapped back to the situation at hand, despite having only drifted for less than a second.

"Late last night. Around 11:30, although I suppose it wasn't late for him, being the night owl he is. Needed to be picked up from a bad part of Yakima. He was hurt," she said quickly, turning away as her eyes started to grow red.

"Yakima?" he asked, slightly confused. "Yakima's hours away from here. What was he doing there, of all places?"

She turned away completely before taking a deep breath to calm herself. "He wouldn't say. I took him to my place—Henry was asleep already, I told him I had to take care of something and wouldn't be back for a while before I left—I took him home and fixed him up. But he–he was gone when I woke up this morning. Or afternoon. We got home around...around 4 AM, and I couldn't sleep until around 8 AM. I– I don't know, I was so, _so_ scared when I woke up and he wasn't _there_ , I couldn't– I can't–"

Tears were pouring down her cheeks in thin rivulets, now, and she avoided looking at either of the two directly. Altaïr felt a sudden wave of guilt—why guilt? He didn't really do anything that would cause this situation, short of asking the question in the first place—and concern flooded through him. Evie was his friend. They had attended college together, they had crammed for tests together, heck, she had introduced him to Maria. If not for Evie, he wouldn't be _married_ right now!

He opened his mouth to speak, but Maria cut him off as she touched his arm gently before turning to Evie.

"We'll look for him, alright? Haytham already set his son on him, and Altaïr has been asking around. If we see him, we'll let you know."

Evie took a shuddering breath, shutting her eyes as her lip trembled slightly. Eventually, she let the breath go, wiping away her tears as she hugged Maria gently.

"Thank you," she mumbled. Altaïr couldn't hear anything else of what she was saying. Maybe that was well—Maria often reminded him not to bother when she was having 'woman to woman talks'.

She peeled herself away from Maria after a moment, her eyes still red rimmed and hands clenched tightly. Jacob was a sensitive subject. They bade one another farewell, and Altaïr led Maria to the car after Evie went back inside. He would need to have a long talk with Jacob when they found him again. If they found him again.

It wasn't until he was brushing his teeth that night that he realized he doesn't work in shifts.

~o:O:o~

Two month had passed, and Maria comes in late into the day with another corpse draped in white fabric. Altaïr looked up from his desk, strewn with papers from legalities and other things he disliked. To put it mildly.

Maria approached him after parking the gurney some six feet away, pecking him on the cheek as she handed him another manila folder.

"From the hospital again."

"Ah."

He thumbed through the folder, with Maria leaning gently against his left shoulder. Malik al'Sayf, aged 29. Anoxic brain injury, coma patient for seven months— _seven months!_ —before his brother, Kadar al'Sayf, finally decided to let him go. Malik. A Syrian name?

He nodded slowly before wheeling the gurney to the back yet again, handing the folder to Maria as he did so. It was late, so he might as well tag this one before locking up for the night.

~o:O:o~

It was cold when he woke. That was the first thing he knew. The next was that he was naked, and in something made of thick black material. A cocoon of sorts. He felt like a butterfly. Were butterflies always this cold? He didn't think so.

He didn't even _like_ butterflies. Why did he feel like one?

There was something metallic lying against his torso, a thin strip running all the way down to his feet. That was strange. He shifted, something that would have struck him surprisingly difficult had he been in the right state of mind, but he wasn't, so there was that. There was something wound around his toe, but he could barely feel it. There was some kind of tag on whatever it was, as well.

The metal strip had ridges in it, like interlocking...fingers? Teeth? A zipper? Why was there a zipper? Was he in some sort of full-body jacket?

 _Sleeping bags_ , he reminded himself. _Those are called sleeping bags._

In any case, weren't sleeping bags supposed to be, well...warmer? And why was he naked? What kind of full-body bag would–

Oh.

 _Oh._

A body bag.

He was in a body bag.

He frantically felt across for the tag, to no avail. He was tired. And cold. Eventually, he gave up and tried to break the zipper open. It did, thankfully, but the action tired him more than he would have initially thought. Cold air rushed in, stealing the breath from his lungs, and he felt a wall when he reached up, not six inches above him.

He was in some sort of cell...?

He felt around the inside of the...cell.., looking for some sort of...

Latch, he supposed.

A button would work, as well. Something to open the whatever-it-was.

His numb fingers found a small latch above his head, and dim light flooded through a large opening behind his head when he pulled it open. Air, much warmer and less odorous than the air inside his cell, filled his lungs as he examined the room, wide-mouthed and wide-eyed. There was a sink on the opposite end of the room, with several medical instruments and a cart with probably more medical instruments atop it scattered about in a not-so-random fashion. A type of hospital room...?

He spotted a box if tissues and a box of silicone gloves beside the sink, along with several other things his clouded and exhausted brain couldn't put a name to. There was a door on the other end of the room, and he was freezing. Maybe literally. Maybe he could find a blanket or something.

He climbed out with some difficulty, naked as the day he was born, before he collapsed in a heap on the ground. The ground was cold, but not as cold as the cell had been. He curled up, shivering. His body was sore. And stubborn. How did he get here, anyways?

Fleeting memories flooded through his brain, and he nearly flinched at the sudden rush. He couldn't grasp onto any of them. He remembered rain, and he was walking to...to where? He didn't know.

Bright lights running up the street, a man shouting, rain, and then–

Pain? He had felt pain, and a lot of it.

And it was raining, a lot.

He remembered seeing the...the car that had–

Oh, god, he had been hit by a car.

But–

Then he remembered hearing a sharp _bang_ and the car veered and crashed into a something.

And then–

Nothing. That was it.

He groaned and brought his hand to his head. He needed to find something to wrap himself with. Some clothes, maybe. This was a hospital, right? Did hospitals have clothes? He didn't know. He was cold. It was frustrating.

He tried to sit himself up, to get a better view of the room he was in.

Nope.

He was hit with a sudden bout of dizziness as he did so, and his arms trembled under the weight of his upper body.

Not today, then.

God, what had _happened?_

He crawled towards the door with some effort, using his feet to push himself forward. He wasn't standing up today. Too weak for that. He kicked off the tag on his toe after some effort and went to find something to open the door. It was cold in here.

There was a hall branching off in both directions when he finally managed to get the door open several hours later. His neck was slightly damp with sweat, from the pure exertion required to find the gauze and other medical items he had used to open it. He scoffed. A snail could be faster than he was, at the moment.

A measure of shame crept into his mind over his predicament. He was too tired to push it away, so he crawled on. The hall to the left led to an exit, but he was naked and sweaty, so he didn't want to go there. He saw lights outside from the windows, cars passing by the building he was in on the streets (which, he noticed, were more busy than the streets of Bellevue). If he had to guess, he was in a large city, larger than his own town.

To be fair, though, Bellevue wasn't exactly small.

But a city.

Bigger than Bellevue, not super far away?

 _Seattle_ , he thought, if he had to guess. _Most likely Seattle._

Yeah, he _really_ didn't want to go outside now, if this was Seattle.

What was he doing in Seattle?

( _I mean,_ he thought, _at least this isn't Tacoma._ )

He took the hall to the right, crawling down in his agonizingly slow pace in hopes of finding something to cover himself. His muscles screamed at him, and they felt like they hadn't been used in half a year.

He didn't realize how close to the truth he actually was.

Maybe he could sit up, now, from all the physical exertion he had just put himself through. Maybe he could almost-walk, using the walls for support.

Maybe he could raise the dead and get a PhD in Physics, while he was at it.

Eventually, he pulled himself into what appeared to be the front room, as plastic chairs lined one wall and a long desk stood to his left. A computer whirred quietly in the room (which, thankfully, had carpeting) as images grew and faded on the screen. He glanced at that momentarily before deciding it was probably best to leave it be.

He practically shouted with success when he spotted a jacket on the back of an office chair before the desk, hurrying over as quickly as he could (which, admittedly, was not very fast) and wrapping himself in the article of clothing. It was for a man about his size, thankfully, and he huddled in a corner near the heater as he buried his face into his hands.

Exhaustion had finally caught up with him, and he would have struggled to stay awake on any other day. However, he was fairly certain waking up in what appeared to be (it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to connect the dots) a morgue from what he, again, was fairly certain was _not_ the normal mode of transportation within was certainly not _normal_ in any conceivable way. Because really, who wakes up at (he paused for a moment, trying to remember the image he had seen on the desk) nine o'clock PM inside a refrigeration unit meant for the dead?

He fell asleep before he put any more thought into it. Which was good, because the next day he would realize how creepy that actually was, when he learns that _yes,_ people work at morgues and _no,_ not all of them are men.

Shocking, right?

~o:O:o~

 **ok so i have two things to say here**

 **first, this was supposed to be a one shot but i said screw it this is gonna be a proper fic so**

 **second, i wont be updating this one as often or as quickly as my other fic, _what's left to lose, anyways_**

 **because, well, it's always been a sort-of side fic**

 **i lied i had three things to say not two**

 **lastly, i honestly have no idea what happens in a morgue so if i get things wrong blame my imagination and slight abhorrance of researching such topics**

 **but anyways, thx for reading so far**

 **cya soon maybe**


	2. rolls of gauze and bobby pins

"Yeah, babe, just give me a minute."

Evie pulled into the parking lot of the mortuary, her phone balancing precariously between her shoulder and her ear. She pushed the door open as she grabbed her purse in the opposite seat, stepping into the chilly morning air in the parking lot. The pavement was dark and slick with water from the morning's showers, a normal occurrence in the city. She paid it no mind—most likely, it would start raining again in a few hours.

The windows of the building were dark, as normal. She saw reflections of the street behind her on the windows, of cars passing by and pedestrians walking alongside them.

 _"You at work now, baby?"_

She nodded silently before unlocking the door and pushing it open with a clink of her keys. "Yeah," she said after a moment, realizing that Henry couldn't see her nod on the other end of the phone. She sighed as she tugged on her white coat over her scrub suit, flicking on the lights as she made her way to her desk.

"Any news of…?" she asked quietly into the phone. Altaïr had left a file on her desk, along with a request to finish off whatever was in it scribbled onto a sticky note in his normal messy handwriting. She flipped through it as she listen to her husband over the phone.

 _"Nothing huge, just whisperings of what we already know. He's doing something out there, and I don't think he wants to be found, Evie. I'm sorry I couldn't find more. I'll talk to Connor, alright?"_

She nodded forlornly before bidding him goodbye ( _"I love you, you know."_ "So you say," _"Do you doubt me?"_ he laughs. "I don't know, from the way you look at your dinner, I'm getting suspicious." Another laugh) and, with a sigh, slipped her phone into her pocket before sifting through the pages in the folder Altaïr had left her.

(She loves her husband more than life itself.)

Malik al'Sayf, a coma patient. Anoxic brain injury, hit by a car seven months ago. Seven months? That...was a long time. Why so long before they let him go? Maybe Haytham would know.

She nodded, biting her bottom lip absentmindedly as she scanned through the pages within. Rubbing her forehead in an attempt to focus on her current responsibilities, she turned around and headed towards the storage area.

She froze when she saw the figure huddled besides Altaïr's desk, wrapped in his coat and sitting next to the vent for the heater. Was he naked? She wasn't sure.

"Uhh…" was her response.

The figure tensed up suddenly, before looking up towards her hesitantly. She reached for her phone and started dialing Altaïr's number without taking her eyes off the figure. He looked uncomfortable. Of course he was. Some stranger had just seen him _here_ , of all places, and immediately started calling someone he didn't know without so much as a word exchanged between them.

She pressed her phone to her ear, setting the file down on the desk as she waited for him to pick up.

 _"What?"_ he said groggily, once he did. She bit her lip before speaking. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if she had woken him up. Why had he still been asleep? He rarely slept in, unless Maria had kept him–

She shied away from that train of thought rather forcefully. Probably baby Darim, if she was to be honest. The little devil. "There's someone here. Could you, like, come on over?"

 _"Who is it?"_

"How the hell am I supposed to know who he is? Just come over, okay, you live only a few streets down."

She heard a heavy sigh, followed by shuffling and a quiet click.

 _"Alright, I'm coming. Should I bring Maria?"_

"Yeah, bring Maria, sure, just...hurry up, 'kay?"

 _"I'm hurryin', just chill."_ She heard mumblings following that, something along the lines of _of all days to have someone break in_ and lots of hopping about and cursing and a loud _Desmond watch the baby_. She would have laughed, but the man before her was...well, he was still there and looking very, very confused. She made to hang up, but then decided to ask one more thing of her friend.

"Hey, Altaïr, bring a change of clothes, too, 'kay?"

 _"What?"_

"Bring a change of clothes."

There was a long pause, before a sigh followed by a hefty amount of swearing came through.

 _"Fine. Bye."_

She tucked her phone back into her pocket before crouching down in front of the man and watching him quietly. How did he get here?

"Hey," she said quietly. He kept watching her, and she sighed. After a moment of silence, she stood from where she had crouched.

"My name's Evie. I work here. Mind telling me how you got in?" she said, a hint of impatience creeping into her voice.

The man furrowed his eyebrows and glanced down at the ground, probably trying to collect his thoughts. She sighed and scratched her head.

"My coworker should be here soon. He's bringing a change of clothes for you. When did you last eat?" she asked. He looked fairly skinny, like he hadn't eaten for some time. He was clean, though, not like the homeless in the area.

She fished an apple she had been saving for lunch out of her purse and handed it to him after wiping it down with her sleeve. He took it from her outstretched hand hesitantly before curling back into his ball under Altaïr's jacket. She sighed and turned back towards the file she had set down, chewing her bottom lip as she read through it once again. She might as well do what Altaïr had left the day before. She still had about ten minutes before he got here, anyways.

"Don't touch anything," she instructed the man as she turned to leave. He nodded silently, clearly confused by his situation. She didn't blame him, honestly.

The hall echoed with her footsteps as she walked towards the refrigeration rooms, armed with a pen and a manila folder. What she found awaiting her in said room was more than a surprise.

The door was slightly ajar when she reached it. Rolls of gauze were scattered across the room, some half unwound and others completely so. There were papers scattered everywhere, and one of the carts holding medical equipment was toppled on its side. One of the cabinets above the sinks was open as well, and several plastic baggies were spilled out. And one of the units was left open. She double checked the papers, just to make sure. Yep, the same one Altaïr had put this Malik dude into.

A thought suddenly occurred to her, right then, but she pushed it away under the premise of insanity. He had been sent from the hospitals, and they always made certain their patients were dead before sending them in. Unless…?

She stepped off that train before she ended up in Conspiracy Land as she began to clean up the mess left in the room. She had a job to do, and that came first before anything else.

Except maybe her husband.

And Jacob.

Her phone rang.

Her lips pressed thin at the number. Not one she knew, but she knew who was calling. She answered it.

~o:O:o~

Shay was already there when Altaïr walked through the door. He looked to be fairly composed, but not enough so to come off as meticulous, as per usual. He glanced up when Altaïr strode in, with his bag slung over his shoulder casually. Shay jerked a finger towards the other man's desk, in a wordless response to Altaïr's unasked question. He silently appreciated the other man's quiet nature (at least, when at work—Evie had told him of times he had been more...rambunctious) as he himself did not enjoy talk. He paid him no more of a mind than usual.

Maria trailed in after him, looking clean and composed as always. How she had managed in the ten minutes' notice, he did not know. Another mystery he had yet to discover for his own use, for sure. She directed him towards a huddled lump in the corner beside his desk, and he didn't bother murmuring an offhand comment about already heading there in the first place. Shay appeared to be absorbed in his paperwork. Whether that was a good or bad thing, Altaïr had yet to decide.

He froze when he saw the figure, his knees pulled up to his chest and holding a jacket—Altaïr's jacket, the one he always left at his desk—to himself. Wasn't that…?

He let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding rather pensively. "Shay," he said quietly.

The other man grunted in response, scribbling down some quick characters on a sticky note as he did so.

"Could you get this guy dressed? I need to talk to Evie," he said, handing the bag of spare clothes to the other man. Evie _and_ the hospital, that was—why in the world would they be sending over a living man?

Altaïr considered him to be lucky; if he—Malik—hadn't gotten out of those freezers quickly, he would have soon frozen to death. Yes, he would have words with the hospital. _Lots_ of words.

Maria crouched down next to the man—no, he had a name—next to Malik, exchanging a few quiet words with him. She offered him a drink out of a fresh bottle of water she had dug out of her purse, which he accepted with mumbled thanks. His words sounded slurred, if Altaïr heard him correctly.

Slightly concerning. Perhaps he should get him checked in with Aveline.

Shay hovered quietly in the background, his large stature almost intimidating in the slightly dimmer lighting of his corner. He gestured for Malik to follow him to the restrooms, probably to dress him as Altaïr had requested. Shay had to catch the man as he tried to rise, however. Al'Sayf wasn't strong enough to support his own weight, then. Unsurprising; he had been in a coma for half a year, after all. Supposedly. Were his papers to be trusted at all, in this situation? Altaïr wasn't sure.

It bothered him.

Maria turned towards him after the two men left. "You should go talk to Evie about what happened." Not a suggestion, that. There was a silent steel to her voice. Altaïr nodded.

"I'll go do that."

She smiled and pecked his cheek before slipping behind his desk and picking up a few medical papers. She swatted them at him when he didn't leave immediately.

Evie was in the back room, scrubbing at her hands rigorously and her hair beginning to fall out of her usual bun. Her mouth screwed slightly as he approached. She wasn't okay.

"You okay?" he asked. There was no way she was okay.

"No," she replied briskly before turning the faucet off rather forcefully and taking a deep breath to calm herself. Yeah, she definitely wasn't okay.

"What happened?" he asked, gesturing vaguely towards the mess of medical supplies and instruments littering the floors and counters and _everywhere_ , really.

She let out a frustrated groan before her head fell into her still-wet hands, clearly not wanting to explain.

"The guy," she said after a moment of silence devoid of groaning. He stared at her flatly.

"The guy," he drawled.

"The guy," she repeated. "Al'Sayf. What is he doing here?"

"That is, in fact, a question I was hoping I could find an answer to soon enough."

She huffed at a stray strand of hair rather irritably.

"-And before you ask, he came in the same way all the others come in," he added.

"On a gurney."

"Dead and on a gurney, yes. Supposedly."

"Why didn't you check if he was dead?"

Now it was his turn to huff. "That's the hospital's job. Besides, he's been a coma patient for half a year. _Half a year_ , 'Vie. They let him off when he wouldn't wake up, gave him the meds and everything. Supposedly. I don't know why the hell he's alive."

She started at him blankly. "Supposedly."

"Supposedly, yes. Because he was _supposedly_ dead when he got here."

She closed her eyes for a moment, her lips pressed together once again. She ran her somewhat-more-than-damp-hands through her hair as she pulled it out of its bun. She wasn't normally this exasperated with anything. Granted, they didn't normally receive living men into a place meant for the dead. But still.

"Jacob?" he asked her. She nodded slowly.

"Just called. Said he needed me to help him with something, something important, but never said what."

Ah.

She continued. "He called from a payphone in Kent. He sounded hurt. Again."

She had procured a small mass of bobby pins from her hair, now damp and hanging limply around her head. A fist clenched the pile tightly, unaware of its actions.

"Any guesses on what he needed?" he asked. Most likely research on something illegal or immoral—the past few years hadn't exactly helped Altaïr's view of the younger of the twins.

She laughed, a dry and humorless thing. "Probably information about father and his associates again. He's taken quite the interest in him, so it seems. I would be suspicious, but…"

He waved her aside before she could finish. "You've been busy. And stressed. Don't worry about this Al'Sayf fiasco, I'll handle it. You get home and rest."

She arched an eyebrow at his last statement. Oh, he knew. She couldn't hide much from him.

"Did Maria tell–"

"About your little situation? Maybe she did. Maybe she didn't, though, and I just happened to notice your sudden dislike of your yogurt that you ate almost religiously before, or your newfound love of cheap chinese food. Whatever the case, I _do_ know, and I know enough to tell you to get out of here before I ask Maria and Shay to do so themselves."

"Maria w–"

"–ould agree with me, unless you've already forgotten of our own _sharir saghir_ at home."

She glared daggers at him.

He smiled.

Oh, yes, he knew about the baby.

~o:O:o~

 **oho yes more stuff**

 **jacob is important in this fic, just fyi, as are a number of other not-mentioned-often characters so far**

 **guess who we'll be seeing next?**

 **thats right prepare for jacob shenanigans and maybe desmond too probably**

 **also i think these chapters will stay around 2-2.5k words so ican write in between wltla updates but yeah**


	3. babysitting and ferry trips

He was _technically_ watching the baby. Altaïr hadn't said anything about taking Darim elsewhere, only that he needed to be watched. Desmond wouldn't be gone long, anyways. Hopefully.

Long, meaning, all day. He'd be gone a few hours, at most.

He'd gotten a text the day before from Connor, which had been the sole reason for this meeting. He had sounded...concerned. Agitated. Which was understandable; the current situation was certainly less than ideal. They didn't have anything solid on the matter, though, so he'd keep his ears open for anything Altaïr or his wife would let out about work. Desmond would have to warn Jacob.

He slipped his shoes on with some difficulty after setting his empty bowl of cereal down in the sink, while baby Darim watched him with curious brown eyes. That baby would make a trio of Altaïr and Desmond—they looked eerily similar already, and the brothers' matching scar only further solidified their common characteristics—but Desmond wasn't complaining too much about his nephew's appearance.

After tying his laces and slipping into a grey sweater, he picked up the bundle of a baby and set him in the carrier. Darim rarely if ever fussed, thankfully, but Desmond took some formula and a pacifier anyways. And diapers. And—oh, he might as well just take the bag.

Ten minutes later, and he's headed through the ever-present Seattle traffic in an old, beat-up Ford with little Darim in the passenger seat opposite to him. Their destination was nearly an hour away, in Bremerton, excluding traffic and wait time for the ferry. He isn't too worried, though. He told Maria that he needed to be somewhere today. Hopefully she remembered.

He gives it twenty minutes. Then she'll call if she forgot.

Darim is sound asleep in his carrier, his tiny dark-haired head lolling slightly with every bump in the road. He's cute, even Desmond had to admit. He's gotta stick to the road, though, so he doesn't take more than a fleeting glance at the sleeping baby.

Fifteen minutes later and he's paid for tickets to board the ferry bound for Bremerton. And, of course, hurried calls from a sister-in-law.

He's smiling slightly when he answers it.

 _"My god, Desmond, I forgot you had plans for today! I am so, so sorry, it just slipped my mind–"_

He interrupts her with a laugh. "It's perfectly fine, Maria, I figured something like this would happen in the end. Really, it's fine. Besides, Darim likes the gulls."

A laugh crackling over the call. _"Oh, good, you're at the ferry. I was worried I might have held you up, with the sudden leave and all."_

Desmond shook his head out of force of habit before responding to his sister-in-law. "What happened, by the way? You both seemed to be in a rush, to be sure."

Maria let in a sharp intake of breath. _"Ah...I suppose I could tell you. It's certainly not the most believable story out there, but that doesn't make it any less true, unfortunately. Honestly, it feels like some sort of cheesy hollywood film where the directors didn't do enough research."_

"Yeah?"

 _"We received a body last night, nothing out of the ordinary there. But, apparently this man was still alive, which is very strange. He had gotten out of his unit while we were gone and kept warm with Altaïr's coat for the night. And, of course, Evie walks in the next day, today, and sees this naked man then calls us first thing, asking for help and a full change of clothes._ _"It's been pretty hectic since then—Altaïr spoke with Evie for a time, to make sure she was alright, Shay is currently on the phone with the hospital responsible for the incident, I am currently filing paperwork and watching the man simultaneously—but we should have thing sorted out within a few days time, maximum."_

"Does he have any family? Anyone you can contact?" He's already done the research on al'Sayf, after the incident—both parents dead, no extended family, one brother who is paranoid about giving his phone number away for anything. There won't be a number listed.

 _"...No. There's a name, though—Kadar al'Sayf, supposedly his brother. He's guy who agreed to the termination when he wouldn't wake up. No contacts, though."_

Kadar. Desmond suppressed a swear, hoping Maria didn't hear him as he did so. He'd need to tell the Kenways. And track down this Kadar, or at least set Jacob on it. He must be important if his name was listed on those documents. Oh, Starrick was good.

 _"Desmond? You still there?"_

"Hm? Oh, yeah, yeah, sorry. Kinda spaced out on you there."

A light chuckle. The ferry pulls into the harbor, and he starts the car again.

 _"It's fine, it wasn't anything important. Hey, I'll finish up here and then Altaïr can tell you the rest later, 'kay?"_

"Sounds good. Try not to raise the dead again this time, yeah?"

Another chuckle. _"I won't, but Altaïr just might. Take care of my baby for me, alright? Lunch at 11, remember."_

"Yep. I'll see ya later then."

The cars ahead of him pull into the ferry as he hangs up. Darim has woken up at this point, and is watching his surroundings with the kind of curiosity only a baby could muster. It's endearing. He shuts the car off when he pulls up and waits.

~o:O:o~

Jacob has his right foot on Connor's lap when he walks in, as said human footstool wraps a bandage around his ankle. Haytham is in the corner of the room, watching the two with a casual gaze. His eyes flick to Desmond as he walks in, before raising his eyebrows at the small load he had taken in with him.

"Babysitting again today, something happened at work for them."

"I heard. Connor told me not ten minutes ago." Jacob takes his foot from Connor's lap after the other man finishes with the bandage mid-sentence, before trying to stand up shortly after he finishes speaking. He stumbles as Desmond places Darim on the table, the baby having fallen asleep in his carrier yet again.

"I'm good, I'm good," is Jacob's first response, followed by a sarcastic eye roll from both Kenways.

"I received a confused and angry email from your brother not an hour ago, detailing the situation at hand," Haytham states. "He expressed his suspicions about both the hospital and the criminal underground." His voice is almost completely monotonous, if not for the slight amusement that had crept up when he mentioned Altaïr's suspicions.

Desmond nodded towards the older man after he finished. "I'll try to keep him out of this, as usual. How's the search for Attaway going?"

"Terribly, unfortunately," Jacob sighed. He collapsed into his chair before continuing on. "Starrick's hidden absolutely everything about her. It's as if she never existed."

"And before you ask, Desmond, he really isn't exaggerating. We can't find anything—no public record, no cell, no record of a degree or time spent at any college—it really is strange," Connor cut in. "Starrick's been travelling a lot as well, as of late."

"What's he been doing? No, that's a stupid question. Why is that guy in the _morgue_ , of all places?" Desmond asked. God, he needed to pay more attention to everything.

"That's the thing—we're not sure. Haytham think's it might be because of your family. Because you're with us an' all, you know," Jacob replies. It's possible—Desmond is all to familiar with having to shake some of Starrick's cronies off his tail—but not very likely.

"There's something we're missing, here—why Malik, of all people? And how did they get him, well, there? He's supposed to be dead. Like, actually dead," Desmond says. "Did you guys find anything else?"

Haytham shook his head and took a seat beside his son. "That covers most of it. Jacob had something to say, though…?"

Said man cleared his throat when Haytham turned his gaze to him. "Erm, yes. Yes I did. Freddie's after us again."

Desmond suppressed a groan with little success. Connor had been working to keep the man away from them. What had Abberline found out, and why?

"He's getting dangerously close to unmasking the killer behind the infamous "Rooks' Hunt", and is almost certain that _someone_ ," Jacob says, gesturing none-too-vaguely to both Kenways, "...is helping him from within."

Connor waved his hand in some sort of gesture, as if to say _'I did what I could but I'll try better next time'_. "We need to focus on one thing at a time. We're trying to stop Starrick, right? We can't find Attaway, al'Sayf has ended up in the morgue with forged hospital documents, Abberline is on our tail, and Starrick himself is on the move. Not to mention the reports father and I need to put together on Jacob every month, because of how pushy your brother has been lately, Desmond."

"He's not wrong," Haytham says. "Clearly, Starrick is up to something–"

"No shit," Jacob grumbles.

"–but I believe these other matters can be used in our advantage, if we weigh their interests against one another," he finishes, giving Jacob a withering look.

"How so?" Desmond asks, before the two start giving each other the cold shoulder again. That had happened once, and it had not gone well.

"Take Abberline, for instance," Haytham replies. "He's a generally good person by most people's standards, from what interaction we've had. Help the general public, promote the safety of man, denounce the false truths of crime, so on and so forth."

"And…?" Jacob draws the word out almost unnecessarily, in an attempt to get a rise out of the older man to no success.

"Does he know about Starrick and all the corruption he regularly partakes in? Does he know about the prostitution rings, or the slave exchange, or the moles in almost every level of government? I think not," he says as his eyes wander between the three other men in the room.

"So you're saying we should just...turn this whole thing over to the very thing we work against? You know that he's got eyes and ears _everywhere_ , and that he's got his cronies in power, too. There's no way we can get that to him without revealing ourselves. And that's not including the chance of them actually _approving_ such an investigation." Jacob looked to be rather worked up at the prospect, which, really, Desmond couldn't blame him. Those things he said would absolutely happen because of the causes ge listed—that is, if they actually went about what Haytham had proposed in such a manner.

"I think me means to bait him," Connor said after Jacob finished. Haytham nods gratuitously towards his son in response.

"My point exactly. We lead our dear friend Abberline on a merry little chase. He'll think he'll be after the killer when really, we'd be turning one enemy against the other. Even if he does piece it together, that alone would solve so many problems of our own."

Jacob seems to take this into genuine consideration for once, before nodding slowly and looking towards Desmond. He shrugged.

"Sounds like a plan," Desmond states in response. Darim begins to squirm in his sleep. Connor offers to keep him quiet when he wakes, surprisingly. Desmond never saw him as a man who would particularly enjoy children, but to each his own, he supposes.

"So, what's the game plan?" Jacob asks after a moment.

"We find Attaway and take her out," Connor states matter-of-factly. "In the meantime, I will work with Altaïr and Maria–" Darim gurgles at the sound of his parents' names, "–about the Al'Sayf situation while keeping an eye out for any possible intentions Starrick might have with him. Jacob, you go after Thorne. She got away from you seven months ago when you killed Ferris, and she's caused enough trouble since then."

Haytham nods in approval. "I will look for Attaway, then. Desmond, how did your interview go?"

He smiled in response to the older man as two pairs of eyes trained on him. "Fantastic. I start on Monday."

Darim gurgled happily.


	4. office jobs and new allies

Altaïr loved his brother, he really did.

That said, he couldn't say he hadn't been surprised to hear that Desmond had found a job without lying. Because really, Desmond had sworn never to set foot in another bar ever again after The Incident, and he hadn't exact gotten a degree in college, either.

Altaïr doesn't want to come off as rude, though, (he really does love him—he'd be lost if Desmond hadn't swooped in and offered to help out when Darim was born) so he takes his time to think of a proper, genuine response instead of something along the lines of a sarcastic _and here i thought [insert company name] made good decisions_. Unless it's like, McDonald's. They'd have a very long conversation if it was McDonald's.

Point is, Desmond has a job now, and Altaïr can't help but feel a little proud of his younger brother. Half-brother. Moving on.

Maria is obviously taking the news much better than Altaïr is, which isn't surprising in the least. She rests a hand on his forearm and smiles towards Altaïr. Desmond's expression doesn't change in the slightest, save a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"That's great! When do you start?" she asked. She may be taking the situation better than he, but she was clearly left almost completely ignorant of how to spark a conversation with their newfound information. Not that Altaïr could think of anything to say. That is, anything she'd let him say.

Desmond shrugged. "Monday, at 9 AM. It's within walking distance from the bus stop, so don't worry about transportation." His ratty old car had finally died on him on the way home from his undisclosed meeting, which Altaïr is secretly thankful for. That car had been a hazard to society, in his personal opinion.

But back to the topic at hand, he decides. He passes a fleeting glance to his wife, as a silent plea for help. Desmond seemed to notice, unfortunately, try as he might to hide the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Altaïr coughed into his hand.

"Did you want to say anything?" Desmond asks a touch triumphantly. Altaïr shrugs.

"Props to you on securing a job," he says simply. Desmond's smile doesn't waver.

God, he really needed to improve his conversation skills with this...person. Brother. With his brother. It was kind of pitiful, really—he can barely talk to the one person who's been with him through thick and thin, longer so than his own wife. Or maybe he just...didn't need words. There had been plenty a time when the two of them had been content to sit quietly on their bunk as children with no exchange of words, not something he and Maria often shared.

Words weren't necessary, Altaïr concluded, not unless things were wrong in the worst way possible. He and his brother would be able to see when something was amiss in such a way though, he was certain. Words didn't need to be wasted between the two of them.

Desmond was talking to Maria again, which wasn't out of the ordinary. The two had always been close friends, and besides, Altaïr had never been the talkative sort. He was content to listen.

He wasn't listening in very closely to this particular conversation, however—something about some obscure sci-fi plot devices and concepts, if he was at all correct—instead opting to eat quietly and stare out the window.

It was raining, as per the usual, and again, as per the usual, the streets were absolutely packed with an assortment of multicolored cars, most of which being driven by better-off U-Dub college students and others by employees that actually worked and/or lived in the area. Mostly Amazon software employees in that sector. Three out of four cars sported some form of football related bumper stickers, be it Seahawks or Huskies or sometimes both. A Mariners baseball sticker came up in the tide of angry traffic every so often, but they were few and far between. And—oh, yes, the angry traffic. Most likely caused by yet another accident somewhere down the line. Seattle drivers forgot how to drive in the rain, sadly enough.

The usual sight, he concludes.

That is, until a navy blue umbrella catches his eye. Or, more accurately, the unnaturally familiar woman underneath said umbrella. He watched her for a few moments more before she disappears behind a corner and into the throngs of rain-soaked devil drivers. Where had he seen her before? He'd only gotten the briefest glance at her face, but…

He furrows his eyebrows with a slight frown. "I swear I have seen that woman before," he mumbles.

Maria and Desmond have since moved on to a different topic altogether. Horror games, by the sound of it. Neither of them seem to have noticed his mumblings.

Where had he seen that woman before? It's almost painful, knowing her face yet not being able to remember anything about any woman of that appearance short of that very encounter.

Desmond shudders at a teasing remark of Maria's. "P.T. was even freakier than Jacob's ex-girlfriend, okay? You can't blame me for being creeped out by it."

Altaïr's whole frame stiffens at the strangely convenient mention of the exact person he had been trying to remember.

Pearl Attaway.

"A masterpiece, nonetheless," Maria replies. "A true shame they had to cancel–"

"But she's dead," Altaïr blurted. Both his brother and his wife turn equally confused looks in his direction.

"Who?" Desmond asks after a prolonged silence. Maria is watching him with a perplexed yet concerned expression. Altaïr shakes his head.

"I swear I just saw Pearl—you remember her? you guys just mentioned her, that's the only reason I could put a name to her face—just...saw her walking down the street."

Desmond is silent, and Maria grows more confused than concerned.

"But—as you so politely said earlier—she's dead. She was killed years ago," Maria states cautiously. "You could just be seeing things, Altaïr. Did you sleep last night?"

He shakes his head again. "No and yes. I'm fairly certain that was her, and I did sleep last night."

"But...she's dead," Desmond urges. "Dead as in, killed in that freak accident four years ago. We went to her funeral and everything. You saw her body, man."

"Exactly," Altaïr replies. "But I saw her walk by just now." Was that her, though? Or did that passing woman happen to look eerily similar? It wouldn't be a first—there'd been that Ezio guy from Italy that had been a disturbing look-alike—and such a look-alike of Attaway was infinitely more likely than Jesus himself descending from the heavens to resurrect a woman that had been discovered post-mortem to have cheated on her fiancé.

Altaïr frowns slightly and shakes his head yet again. "...You're right. Probably someone else. Either that or I'm crazy."

Desmond snorted. "When are you not?"

He can't argue with that.

~o:O:o~

The building he'll be working at is crisp and tidy, almost painfully so. There's several other employees milling about, all dressed in work-appropriate attire. No ties. Boeing had started that one, and it was just a thing in Seattle, now.

He's following a redheaded woman around said building, who goes by the name of Melanie Lemay ("Please, Melanie is just fine!"). She's talking fast and a bit too enthusiastically for his liking. Hard to imagine a woman like her would be part of the whole net Starrick has woven.

"And these are your new coworkers! Desmond, say hello to Shaun, Rebecca, and Stephanie!"

He lifts his hand in greetings towards the three others; he recognizes Stephanie—Stephanie Bishop, if he remembered correctly—from his interview. She was one of their original moles and was the reason he'd been able to get the position without raising suspicion in the first place. Rebecca would be the one in front of the monitor with her massive headphones. She'd be the one Bishop told them about—the possible ally, if he was correct. Then that would make Shaun the difficult one. Quote unquote, "difficult". He'd learn for himself how true that really was.

Shaun frowned at Desmond in response to his greetings. "A new one, Melanie? Can't you pull from the 'qualified' department more often?"

Oh, yes, he would be difficult.

"Steph will be taking over from here on out, alright? I'll see you later today, then!" Melanie seemed almost eager to dump him here with these people. Desmond couldn't decide whether to blame that on a strict schedule, irritation caused by himself, or a fear of the other man. Best assume all three along with the assumption that she'd mastered the art of emotional masking.

Needless to say, Lemay was out of the office in a heartbeat, leaving Desmond alone with an ally, a possible ally, and a probable rival/frenemy. Not terrible odds, to be honest. For what, he didn't know. Anything short of a shooting, maybe.

Bishop approaches him in stride once Lemay disappears down the hall. She claps him firmly on the shoulder. "Welcome to the team, Des."

"You know each other?" Shaun's accent is very strongly British, that much was obvious. Desmond couldn't see his face, but he was probably still frowning. "Seems a bit catastrophic, yeah, to have one of Bishop's friends here, don't it?"

"Oh, quit it, Shaun, the guy just got here," a new, raspy voice says. There's a noticable _clunk_ as Rebecca places her headphones on her desk and she approaches Desmond. He shakes her hand when she holds it out in greetings. "Rebecca Crane, I'm the tech-savvy one according to Shaun. Don't mind him, by the way, he's just British. Being difficult and rude is part of his nature."

Desmond snorts slightly at her joke and Bishop chuckles alongside him. Shaun looks to be absolutely molested.

"At least we have decent tea and education," he mutters. Rebecca only laughs in response. Yeah, they'd need to get her on the team for _sure._

~o:O:o~

 **so yeah we have stuff going on**

 **was altaïr hallucinating or did he indeed see the deceased miss attaway?**

 **what happened between jacob and pearl, and how did she die?**

 **is she dead?**

 **also, how much does desmond know about starrick and what the hell is starrick planning?**

 **most of these are questions i need to remind myself of at midmight as i write this**

 **keyword: most**

 **but yes! this is kind of a boring chapter, sorry**

 **more action coming as soon as i sort out malik and his brother tho so**

 **yeh**

 **thx for reading, comments are more than appreciated (they are well loved i read all the reviews i get on any fic like ten times over) and yeah!**

 **yall are great, ily all**

 **-ostrich**


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